


Doomed Dave: take this one for the team.

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dream Bubble, First Time, Homestuck Kink Meme, M/M, Podfic Available, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-17
Updated: 2011-03-17
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:26:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Making a dick joke was a strategic error. You put the subject on the metaphorical table. You're now thinking about troll dick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doomed Dave: take this one for the team.

**Author's Note:**

> Podfic by a lovely anon available here: http://www.mediafire.com/?9npuoi7aq8aba0g

So you're pretty sure this is, in fact, ironic hell. You and the fail troll, hanging out, being dead. You hope alpha Dave appreciates how fucking lucky he is that you took this one for the team.

On the up side, it being _ironic_ hell instead of straight-up serious hell means you get to skip the pitchforks and fire and shit. Which is cool. That would have been adding injury to insult or whatever and you're so not about that. Not from this end of the equation, at least.

And that's about all there is to it. Here you are, hanging out with the worst troll ever, listening to his unbelievably shitty rap, watching him get his grubby troll hands—or whatever they call them, they've got stupid names for everything else—all over your vinyl. You don't shank him for that, even though it's tempting sometimes. You wouldn't want him to know he'd gotten to you, and besides, what if it didn't work? Then you'd look like a fucking toolbox.

You don't shank him. You just watch, to make sure he doesn't fuck up any of your stuff. You watch really closely.

His hands aren't that grubby, you guess. It's weird that they're gray, that he's gray all over, but actually he's not bad with his hands. The claws are a little freaky looking. You've seen plenty of freakier things, though. He spins a half-decent mix when he tries. And he smiles when you nod to the beat, and for a smile full of sharp-ass fangs? It looks pretty doofy. He almost reminds you of John that way.

No, hang on. You erase that thought from your memory and pretend it never happened. That puts you in too-weird territory.

Maybe it's to balance the fact that you're the coolest kid who ever was cool, but this troll you're stuck with is kind of an awkward little nerd, honestly. An awkward nerd with sharp teeth and claws and immense horns the color of candy corn. You guess that's kind of interesting as nerds go. Not as cool as you, obviously, but you can't hold that against him. That's just a standard that other people can't hope to match.

He tells jokes sometimes. His terrible rap is unintentionally hilarious, but he also tries to joke around on purpose. You smile a bit to humor him. He stammers over his punch lines, for fuck's sake. He stammers over everything, except when he's rapping, but you don't really want to encourage him to do any more of that than he already does.

And those outrageous horns. You wonder what it must be like to have horns like that. Aren't they heavy? Don't they get in the way? He only snags them on shit in your room once or twice before he learns where everything is. You say something at some point about them, and he tells you that, uh, they're actually, uh, bigger than average.

He can't really expect you to resist an opening like that. So to speak. You look down at his pants and his face turns a funny color. It's weird how different a blush looks when somebody's skin is gray and his blood is...what, like chocolate milk? Trolls. So weird.

Making a dick joke was a strategic error. You put the subject on the metaphorical table. You're now thinking about troll dick.

Ordinarily you'd have plenty of ways to distract yourself from something so freakish. One or two of them might involve puppets, even, but that would probably better than speculating about alien nerd genitals. Maybe. It's a tough call.

You are seriously pondering where troll dick belongs on a hierarchy of things you wish you weren't thinking about.

Seriously.

The thing is, everything else in your room is familiar. Boring. You never would have played Sburb in the first place if you hadn't been bored with all the same old shit, right? The only thing new and different around here now...is him. And he is very definitely _very_ different.

You wonder what his skin feels like. It looks a little like sharkskin, and that sounds pretty cool. Smooth one way, gritty the other. If you play it cool you could probably find out without him really catching on.

Not only the coolest but also the most magnanimous guy, you offer to show him how to play some of your bro's video games. That means sitting on the couch together, close enough that when you're really getting into it, leaning into your tricks because everybody knows that's the trick to making a game-rendered skateboarding jackass score more points—in mid triple-ollie-kickflip-gravity-defying-bullshit you lean close enough that your arms touch. He doesn't feel like sharkskin after all. He feels....

Don't say plush.

He feels _smooth_ , then. Soft. You mention how weird that is, to have no natural defenses against all the points and edges trolls come with.

They, uh, get tougher as they grow up, he explains. But he, uh, was never the toughest one, anyway. He probably, uh, would have been culled, if, uh, the game hadn't destroyed their world first.

Troll society sounds pretty shitty. You tell him so, and he seems to think that was nice of you. You touch his arm again, and when he doesn't freak out you reach up to touch his horns. They're velvety like a baby deer's.

You are such a cliche right now it's ridiculous. Lalonde would laugh herself sick if she could resist the urge to cram a hand down her panties and watch. You're like every piece of semi-literate fanfiction you've ever copied and pasted to Jade in late-night pesterlogs that she was probably sleeping through. You're like a shitty stick figure webcomic where the characters figure this is a reasonable way to deal with being bored.

But if you know all that and you do it anyway, it's totally ironic. You're pretty sure Bro would agree.

You're also pretty sure you shouldn't think about Bro right now.

Because right now you've got Tavros by the horns just to see what that feels like, and he's chewing nervously on his black lips with those ridiculously sharp teeth. Oral is totally a hate-romance thing for trolls, you bet.

Playing with his horns is apparently a friendly gesture, though. He stammers about not knowing they'd feel that good. You point out that he's never messed around with a guy as cool as you before. He agrees to that too easily.

You cut to the chase and climb into his lap, running your hands up the velvety length of his horns, and if you're doing it then you're going to _do_ it, going to make this happen, so you kiss him.

Kissing Tavros the freaky nerd troll is not supposed to feel this good, you're pretty sure. You swipe your tongue across his lips and he opens his mouth, so you can lick the points of his teeth. His mouth tastes a little like cinnamon. You wonder if Terezi knows that.

You wonder if it's extra weird to be thinking about one troll while you make out with a different one, or if their four-way romance thing makes it okay. Now is not the time to ask.

His hands are on your thighs, sort of petting you like he doesn't know what he's doing. Your hands, meanwhile, are curled around his horns, your thumbs stroking along them to feel the texture, the velvety surface over hard...this is a little too much of an obvious metaphor. It makes Tavros shiver, though, and that makes you feel pretty cool.

If there's one thing Bro taught you about true ironic mastery, it's that going halfway just makes you look like a jackass. If you're going to do this, then damnit, you're going to make this happen. You push Tavros's open shirt off his skinny shoulders and start tugging up the t-shirt underneath. He looks stunned for a second and he kind of stammers, like he didn't realize this was where you were going or you're moving too fast for him. You're the Knight of Time. You're too fast for just about anybody.

He catches up with the idea quick enough, squirming out of his t-shirt—you have to help him tug it up over his horns, and then you toss it behind the couch somewhere and put your hands on his skin again. He's the same shade of gray all over. Trolls must not tan, or...blacken, or whatever verb you'd use for the monochrome version. He's skinny and soft-skinned under your hands, and it feels like his bones are in pretty much the same layout as yours. Your universe made from the pattern of theirs, or whatever.

You strip your own shirt off next, and his hands wander over your skin. He's careful with those wicked claws but you never forget they're there. They're probably designed to do some sick nasty damage, given what violent assholes most trolls seem to be. At least you're not stuck with one of the psychos in your bubble with you. That would be a lot more straight-up hellish than you're ready to deal with.

You need to quit letting your mind wander so much. You lean into him, getting some skin-on-skin happening here. Cornering the market in intergalactic twink porn, that's you. Tavros seems to be really getting into it, squirming under you and making little gasping noises that you have to admit are pretty sexy. When you reach for the buttons on his jeans, he nods frantically and grabs for yours, too.

For a second you both have to just kind of look at each other. Trolls and humans are pretty different downstairs after all. His dick—okay, fine, you can call it a bone bulge if that really makes him feel better—is a deep golden brown, flushed with his blood, and it's shiny like it's wet. It swells a lot near the tip, and there are rows of little nubs down the whole thing. Troll ladies must have some pretty high expectations. Troll guys, too, you correct yourself. They don't swing one way or the other, right?

He asks if he can touch, and he doesn't even stutter. You nod, and of course then you have to see what his feels like, too, because just sitting there getting groped wouldn't be cool at all. It feels weird in your hand, half sticky and half slick, but you're not so sure that's a bad thing. If he'd been just like you except gray, that would have been pretty disappointing.

His hand feels good, too, smooth and warm. He starts jerking you off, slowly at first, then faster when you tell him he's doing it right. You bet alpha Dave isn't going to have his first fumbling teenage sexual experiences with a dead troll.

You actually think he might be missing out.

The two of you wind up stretched out on the couch, Tavros half on top of you—his horns would get in the way if he were the one pressed into the couch—each of you humping the other one's hand. You grab hold of one of his horns with your other hand and he whimpers, begs you to do that on both sides. You can't jerk him off at the same time, but hey, if he's okay with that, you guess you can indulge his kinky horn-fondling fetish.

So you grab him by the horns and use them for leverage, pushing yourself up against him. Tavros moans, squirming on top of you and shifting his grip so your dick is rubbing against his bulge. How's that for kinky? You're rubbing off against troll dick, playing with his outrageous candy-corn horns, pressing your mouth to his throat to taste his skin and maybe bite, just a little. The biting drives him crazy and you think shit, that's right, trolls like it rough. You bite again, a little harder, with your blunt human teeth, and Tavros moans like that's the sexiest thing in his universe _or_ yours, and the next thing you know he's coming all over you.

 _All_ over you, we're talking hentai quantities of troll spooge here. Your stomach's covered in it, your dick's covered in it, you can smell that weird combination of salt and spice in the air, and screw being ironic, screw being cool—you throw your head back and buck up into his hand and in about five more seconds you're coming, too.

Congratulations, Dave Strider, you are officially a kinky bastard. Maybe it's the perspective of being dead, but you find you're pretty okay with that. Tavros is still breathing pretty hard, and when you try to move—because seriously you're going to need to go investigate the dream-bubble state of your shower in a minute—he clings to you like he doesn't want to let go. Possibly you are now a kinky bastard with an alien nerd boyfriend.

You're pretty okay with that, too.


End file.
